Quick little note to let you know Shopbop is running a surprise sale that ends tonight (don’t know how I missed this in my inbox until this morning…), where they’ve temporarily marked down items to 40% off. A few favorite finds:
P.P.S. Sephora is running its annual tiered promotion (20% off for VIBRouge, 15% off for Rouge members, 10% off for insiders) — sharing what I bought in an upcoming post, but basically re-stocking my cosmetic cabinet with all of my favorite beauty buys. Especially excited about my new shampoo and conditioner.
By: Jen Shoop
Though Mr. Magpie and I speak with less and less frequency about our former home in Chicago, as we thaw into spring, we find ourselves revisiting our backyard often in conversation. Mr. Magpie talks about the first grills of the season on his beloved Weber kettle grill (a great gift for any dude, though it does require a primer in lighting a chimney, etc.), and I can see him out there, through the sliding glass doors to our stone-paved terrace: the plumes of smoke perfuming his requisite UVA sweatshirt, an IPA in a koozie at his side, country music blaring through our speakers, a look of satisfaction on his face. I often caught him idly looking around our backyard, probably taking stock of the trees and mulch and plants, plotting changes and additions, or maybe thinking of nothing but how happy he was standing in the middle of our backyard oasis, that small plot of land we called our own.
Though Central Park’s proximity across the street is not a paltry substitute, we miss having a private outdoor space. We spent most evenings out there in the summer, grilling, eating, sitting on the steps enjoying aperol spritzes, idly tossing the tennis ball to our rambunctious airedale. During the day, I’d sit there with an iced tea and a book, and, after she’d arrived, mini in her boppy or stroller bassinet at my side. There was the shade of an enormous maple (one Mr. Magpie endured a love-hate relationship with — it shed those propeller things all over the place), the seclusion of a tall fence separating us from our neighbors, the tidy hedge of boxwoods.
Today, I thought I’d share some of my favorite backyard finds for those blessed with such a space of their own, one of our greatest treasures as homeowners.
+Patio umbrella — I love the trim on this one. So old world Hollywood.
+String lights. Mr. Magpie would hang a few strands of these across our backyard in the warm months and I loved the cozy glow it afforded our al fresco meals. These are a bit bigger in size, but they get insane reviews.
+Wicker dining chairs (on sale for $99!) — love the different colors these come in. So fun! I like the soft blue or coral.
+Love the rustic vibe of a pitcher of water or lemonade or sangria on an outdoor table. This is lovely, and you know I love anything chinoiserie. I also own a monogrammed acrylic pitcher like this, which is not only lovely for showcasing a punch or water infused with diced fruit and herbs, but a perfect housewarming gift.
+We frequently filled a galvanized metal tub with ice to stow beer, sparkling water, and wine when entertaining. I’m IN LOVE with this style (on sale!), which comes with a stand! Amazing.
I’m excited to revive my women of substance series today (it’s been on hiatus for nearly a year!) by showcasing Laura Gelfand of the gorgeous knitwear label Le Lion. Laura is a fashion and textiles veteran: she earned a degree from Parson’s and has worked for design houses as impressive and varied as Ralph Lauren, Catherine Malandrino, and Figue. In 2017, Laura set out to establish her own brand after falling in love with a sweater she scored on TheRealReal decorated with sequins on the left chest. She recalls that it was in fact an ill-fitting sweater but that she couldn’t find anything just like it — and she was in love with it. She went to her friend Martha and asked, “Why don’t we make these?”, adding that including some element of personalization felt in line with where she perceived the clothing industry to be going (i.e., away from “fast fashion”). And so Le Lion was born — a collection of sweaters adorned with “embroidered interpretations of traditional heraldry” and “personalized with whimsical monograms and zodiac constellations.”
Strength, honesty, and kindness. I so admire strong women, and strength can come in so many different forms: strength in determination, in point of view, in work, in love…Honesty is incredibly important to me in all facets, and I think it often takes incredible strength to be honest.
Your favorite heroine.
I love any woman that goes against the grain, that has a point of view, that doesn’t just accept things the way they are. My maternal grandmother was really my heroine. She was fiercely independent, which I just loved, AND she drove a red Porsche and wore leather pants until she was in her 80s! She had incredible style and I have a bunch of pieces from her that I wear all the time.
Your main fault.
I put far too much pressure on myself!!! It can be debilitating.
Your greatest strength.
I am a doer of all things! When faced with an obstacle, I’ll learn whatever I need to in order to master it. In starting this business, I have encountered so many challenges and have learned so much about business, the industry, relationships, and so on to overcome them.
Your idea of happiness.
I am a real homebody. I love curling up and watching a movie (or two!) on the couch. But I am at my happiest when traveling somewhere that completely takes me out of my element — it is so exhilarating!!
…or Paris, always.
Your idea of misery.
Anxiety thinking about the future. I constantly work on trying to live in the moment!
Currently at the top of your shopping lust list.
TOO many things! But to list a few…
I love pairing skirts with my sweaters and there are a couple of whimsy ones on Net-A-Porter that I am lusting over, like this printed satin one from Marni and this mixed-print Dries Van Noten. I also just discovered Le Nine crystal basket bags and I need one! I love anything that sparkles and I think straw bags are so fab year round. Finally, I am a shoe-addict and I adore Rochas flats. They are so feminine and whimsical. I love this simple pair with the sweet bow!
A great new pair of AGOLDE jeans at Cabana in Dallas. Merry’s stores Cabana and Canary are my favorites!
I feel most empowered wearing…
One of my sweaters. They make me feel incredibly proud, not only because they represent something I have created but because they are personal. It makes me feel so proud to see other women wearing them and to hear how special and personal they are to them. I have tried so hard not to just put more stuff into this world and to create something that feels special to people and brings them joy. A customer recently ordered a sweater with her deceased father’s initials in the heart and it was just incredible to see her reaction when she received it. I want everyone to feel that way when they wear them!
Favorite Magpie post.
I love ALL of your beauty posts. I am such a beauty addict and just love reading about and discovering all of the products you find and review. I have ready every single one! I love “Words I Hate + Makeup I Love” because it is just genius and perfect.
Mr. Magpie lives by fairly strict and highly idiosyncratic rules about what should be done at various points in the day. Even though I am a rule follower by nature, I find myself rebelling against many of his self-appointed directives: we both agree that the bed should be made within about an hour of waking, but that’s where our agreement on time-of-the-day rules ends. For example he feels there is a “breakfast window,” a “lunch window,” and a “dinner window.” If he somehow misses “the breakfast window” by not eating something by 10 a.m., he will fast until lunch — at which point, only “lunch fare” is admissible. Thus, he is the only white male under the age of 40 who actively hates brunch. And don’t even get him started on the “monstrosity” of “breakfast for dinner” — a tradition I cherished as a child. I could eat pancakes all the livelong day, and will admit that I have indulged in more than my fair share of cereal at odd mealtimes in my day, but he will recoil in disgust if I share such admissions.
But perhaps his biggest bugaboo is wearing pajamas before bedtime.
On the one hand, I see his point. Like my own parents, he tends towards formality: I was raised in a household where we sat together at the formal dining table with a linen tablecloth every night for dinner–and were expected to dress accordingly. (“No hats at the table!” my mom would chant in my brother’s direction. “Tuck in your shirt!” my father would follow.) I like the notion of dressing nicely for dinner, of sitting down and recognizing that moment in the day as something special and familial.
And I have always been a huge proponent of “getting dressed” for the day, even when I work from home and the likelihood that I will see anyone is nil. I carry myself differently when I have put thought into what I am wearing, when I feel good about myself and my appearance. In college, I regularly wore sundresses to class, even when about half of my classmates would roll up in athleisure or straight-up sleepwear.
But by around six-thirty or seven p.m., I crave comfort. I want to be out of my constricting jeans and into loose cotton. I long for the breeziness of a robe, the fluff of my ridiculous slippers underfoot. And yet I respect Mr. Magpie’s perspective so dearly and dread his inevitable query — “PJs already?” with such ferocity that I will try to wait until after mini has gone to bed and we are approaching the hour of sleep to change.
And that is why I have become a caftan queen.
The caftan is the perfect loophole to this quandary. It projects a point of view, but is effortless and comfortable. Mr. Magpie understands it as a dress even though it is closer to a nightgown. And when you wear one, you feel you’ve attained some level of urban boho chicness you didn’t quite think you were capable of.
Below, my favorite caftans. (Incidentally, a great buy for pregnancy and post-pregnancy.)
+Pippa Holt. I’ve drooled over this label (shown above) for seasons now — and they also carry mini-me styles. All of the pieces from this collection are hand-made and take about a month (!) to produce.
+SZ Blockprints — DUH. I’ve talked your ear off about this brand, but they are loose, airy, adorable, and better priced than a lot of the other styles out there.
Basically any of these could be worn out of home with a pair of smart sandals. I tend to rely on my Hermes Orans to tie a look like this together, but I also love the look with either statement slides like these or leather lace-up sandals like these (get the look for less with these).
+A great striped basic for summer (40% off). Love this layered under joveralls, paired with white shorts/jeans, and especially accompanied by an olive green anorak.
I have always been drawn to people of conviction, Mr. Magpie being high on that list. I have often found myself thinking that I’d much prefer the company of someone with a point of view than I would a willow in the wind. And yet, on occasion, I wonder how my loved ones would paint me in this regard. Mr. Magpie has told me many times that I have a gift for accommodating multiple perspectives and for making others feel at home in voicing their opinions, however at odds they might be with my own. His portrait flatters, but I also find myself glancing uneasily at the blurred boundary between civility and spinelessness. In fact, I wrote not long ago that I often feel “I don’t know enough to have an opinion on something,” adding that “the only thing worse than a blowhard is a waffling poltroon.”
I have been chewing on this the last few weeks. When I read back many of my blog posts, I see in myself a woman who is not easily convinced — who tends to drift in the gray areas, who is better at sketching the landscape than she is at dialing in on the finer points of a particular matter, who will often think, of pressing contemporary issues: “I’m just glad I’m not in a position to legislate around this.” As I age, I find the list of absolutes in life grows shorter and shorter. When I turned thirty-four, I wrote that “It’s as if I went from being far-sighted to near-sighted; I didn’t know what I didn’t know in my 20s, and now I know what I don’t know — and so my conviction in the shape of things has shifted, shrunk, concentrated in on only the small world around me, the narrow sphere in which I know that 1+1=2. The mathematics beyond skew.”
What are the ethics of this mentality? Am I sheltering myself? Elapsing into solipsism?
On the other hand: maybe it’s OK to keep only a very brief list of convictions, a string of a precious few unimpeachable truths I carry carefully with me through life. Maybe I don’t need to stand with resolve in all things; maybe open-mindedness is a gift.
““Oh!” I said, forcing a smile onto my face, pretending I wasn’t crying, “Oh, you look so handsome.” And he did. Truly. Somehow he’d lost five years in the shearing of his hair. He looked athletic, strong. I noticed in a way I hadn’t in years the hazel of his eyes, the breadth of his smile, and the squaring of his chin. But there was something about his searching eyes, anxious for my reaction, that gutted me. And there was something else — something about his mild heroism (yes, heroism!) in accommodating the effects of age that wrung my heart. He had been agonizing over whether or not he was ready to accept that he has become a 36-year-old father-to-two (almost!) and wife-to-one with thinning hair and an aging body, and, all on his own, he set out to accept — celebrate! — that transition head-on as the calendar year turned.”
May I greet my own aging with similar poise…
Post-Scripts: Cateyes and Easter Sales.
+Loving these cateye shades in both colorways. The olive green have a Prada vibe to them…
There is a lovely little poem by Julia Kasdorf titled “What I Learned from My Mother.” Much of it centers upon a mother’s role as salve and caretaker, and my favorite bit runs as follows:
“I learned from my mother how to love the living, to have plenty of vases on hand in case you have to rush to the hospital with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants still stuck to the buds.”
This is very much my mother, whose ministrations run from the shockingly specific and intimate (picking up colace for me after mini was born, when I would rather have died asking anyone for such an embarrassing favor) to the knee-bucklingly generous (flying to Rome to hear me read a paper as a graduate student). This passage nails her comfort in gestures of care-taking big and small–and her preparedness, speed, and single-mindedness in accomplishing them. And, bonus: it references a peony, and my mother cherished her peony bushes in our old stone house on Tilden Street in Northwest D.C. so much so that the image of a peony bush and the black ants that tended to burrow into it vibrate through much of my childhood nostalgia, like the focal point on a hand-stitched quilt.
But there are many things I have learned from my mother, setting aside her deep kindnesses as my caretaker and guardian–too many things to enumerate, or to attempt to–but I will share a few today:
To write a thank you note immediately after a gift is received.
To be specific in said thank you note, mentioning where you have placed the gift or why, exactly, you love it and how it will be used.
To stock up on scarves — endlessly versatile and timeless.
To listen, fully.
To keep an extensive back-stock of household essentials: toilet paper, paper towels, tissues.
To pray, often.
To keep snacks and a notepad in your bedside table drawer for middle-of-the-night micro-crises.
To read every day.
To buy butter in bulk on sale and keep it in the freezer. (It thaws beautifully.)
To tell yourself, when you think you can’t: “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” This was a trick she used when toilet-training us (the power of positive thinking!) that I still conjure in moments of duress.
To give other people the benefit of the doubt.
To tilt your head and say, firmly, “Jennifer” when you are about to say something important so that your daughter has a mild heart attack and knows you mean business. (This works — mini will drop what she’s doing and look up like a dear in headlights when I’ve used this voice with her.)
To keep tissues in my purse.
To clip coupons and hunt for sales.
To say “I love you” as often as your children can stand it.
This last one, maybe, the most powerful — as I find myself drawn to repeated affirmations as I attempt to parent my own children. I know that saying “I love you” is difficult for some people, and is not the lingua franca in the culture of some families. But it has always felt easy for me because love was so amply given and volubly communicated by my mother. It is the coda of all phone conversations, the casual good-bye tossed over shoulders on the way out the front door, the unthinking accompaniment to “good night.”
Per usual, I aim for gifts under $100. I am always astounded by mother’s day gift guides where the prices drift into the multiple hundreds. I am either stingy or those guides are impractical. Either way, a couple of items I would recommend for a beloved mother or mother-like figure:
+For the style maven: these cateye shades from one of my favorite non-designer eyewear labels, these earrings, or this scarf, which I own in a different colorway and never cease to find a trillion ways to wear.
+For the flower lover: this headband (I had to buy it for my mom. It is so her!) or this blouse (under $100 with promo code currently running).
+For the foodie: these frozen croissants (they are quite good — you let them proof at room temp overnight and then bake them off in the morning), a bundle of Afeltra bronze-cut pasta (if you’ve not tried high-end dried pasta, you’ve not yet lived — it’s a totally different beast), or a delivery from Levain cookies.
+Over $100, but I carry this tote with me everywhere these days, and it reminds me of my mom.
There is a tradition at UVA called “Midsummers.” Some time in late June, students flock back to campus for a solstice reunion, the small bars on The Corner packed and sweaty and the frat houses that line Mad Bowl spilling over with howling parties that rage late into the thick summer nights, their roofs dotted with partygoers sitting in lawn chairs alongside coolers of beer, the muffled thud of hip-hop beats in beer-stained basements interrupted only briefly by the strings and twang of country anthems like “Wagon Wheel” and “Fishing in the Dark.” This is the South, after all.
I always loved Midsummers. There was something wildly escapist about being so close to school without any of its responsibilities and deadlines, safely nestled a two-hour drive from my summer job and the routine of life at home: just me and my friends, the haze and stillness of a Southern summer, the taste of poorly-mixed drinks in oversized sorority cups, the bearing of a new summer outfit, the happenstance crossing-of-paths with acquaintances and crushes and old boyfriends. It was thrilling to be seen, maybe with a new haircut, or a deeper tan, or the posture of confidence I did not fully possess.
The summer after my second year, Mr. Magpie drove me down for the occasion. We were only a month into dating, and everything was fresh and new and limber and I called him “baby” for the first time over dinner at The Biltmore, the word catching in my throat like a chicken bone. I looked up anxiously for a reaction.
“What happened?” he asked, puzzled at my sudden change in posture.
“Oh, nothing,” I dismissed, relieved he’d not made the connection between my fumbling attempt at intimacy and my stricken look, comforted by the fact that I could play it off. Maybe terms of endearment were out of reach, I reasoned, this early into the relationship.
After dinner, we parted ways. He headed off to meet up with his buddies and I raced back to my apartment to reconnect with my girlfriends, a tribe of mainly south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line beauties with a taste for Andre “champagne” — champagne in quotes because, for those uninitiated in the art of the swill, Andre is essentially $5 fruit juice pumped with some sort of dubious alcohol and bubbles the size of grapes. (It is rot gut.) We huddled in the apartment I shared with my girlfriend A., catching up, blaring music, adjusting our outfits, calling boyfriends and crushes. I flushed every time Mr. Magpie’s name came up–and it resurfaced frequently because I managed to maneuver most conversations toward him. He was older than we were, and I’d been chasing him since before I’d arrived at New Dorms nearly two years earlier, and I felt like I’d won something. Suddenly, my earlier quibbling over the term “baby” felt infantile, and I longed to be in his company: to call him mine, to be seen with him, to be understood as his.
A few hours later, I successfully managed to direct my unwieldy pack of friends to Coupe Deville’s, a bar that felt as though it belonged in 1967, with wood benches and questionable upholstery and low ceilings and the stink of smoke. Mr. Magpie had said he’d be there, and that he knew the bouncer, too — and so I managed to get inside by mentioning his name at the door, despite flashing the ID of an elder sorority sister of a different ethnicity. The bouncer smirked.
“OK, Landon. Fine.” And he waved me through.
I felt as though I had a balloon in my lungs as I skimmed the crowded confines for Mr. Magpie’s shape. My friends were laughing about something as we wove our way through the throngs of good-looking Southern boys and well-dressed Southern girls, many in sundresses with deep tans and sun-kissed hair. We were barreling toward the bar, reapplying lip gloss, breaking out in peals of laughter, and I was scanning for —
Him. Sitting on a stool at the bar in a polo shirt, seemingly freshly showered. He always has that look, even now: clean, tidy, unperturbed. The balloon in my lungs expanded. I leapt toward him.
“Hi!” I beamed.
“Hey, hey!” he returned, pulling me toward him, sliding off his stool, helping me out of the fray. I was conscious of the circle of his male friends registering my arrival, and my face burned with self-awareness. Mr. Magpie widened his stance, pulling his cup of beer into him so that it wouldn’t spill over me despite the jerky movements of the crowd around us, his eyes softening as he looked down at me in an expression partway between bemusement and anticipation. He’s never been big on PDA, but there was something unmistakably possessive about the way he reacted to my presence. Every now and then, he would hold out his hand as if forging an imaginary protective bubble around me, preventing a stray limb or raucous frat brother from brushing up against me.
I remember his regard, his positioning, as if it were yesterday, in part because he still wears it today, on the odd occasion that we find ourselves meeting at some middleground, having arrived separately: that easy welcoming look, that protectiveness. The way he will, simultaneously unphased and disgusted, shove someone out of the way if that person is getting a little too close to me for his own comfort. The way he stiffens if he’s caught wind of an unbecoming sentiment or note of cruelty in someone’s tenor toward me. He is now, as he was then, a gentleman–and it still feels new and indulgent. But I also remember our reunion that night because I’ve never quite shaken the way he made me feel all those years ago, as we groped our way through the awkwardnesses of a young relationship: proud to be his, maybe a little surprised. It’s engendered a reciprocal instinct toward possessiveness around him — even now, closing in on a decade and a half of relationship-nurturing. I wonder occasionally if this marks me as strange, or if other women feel the same way towards their spouses. When I see him across the room at a party, or weaving his way through a crowded farmer’s market, or wrangling mini in the vestibule of the Church, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of attachment: he is mine, I think, with surprise and something like urgency.
Over coffee a few weeks back, a friend of mine mentioned how much she enjoys reading my posts on Mr. Magpie.
“You can just tell from the way you write about him that you’re still chasing him.”
I was caught off-guard by her observation, by its proximity to a truth I’d not acknowledged. I know him well, of course — his moods, his preferences, his occasionally gutting stubbornnesses — and yet, he escapes me. He has always been his own person in our relationship, carrying his own interests and passions and opinions to himself, largely unruffled by my own. He lets me be me, and he is determinedly him. If I ever changed his mind on something, I am unaware of said victory: he is an unrelenting maverick. In the weeks following my friend’s airy and on-point description of our dynamic, I’ve realized that it’s this independence of his that leaves me in his chase. I am always wondering what he will think and how he will act, and whether it will surprise me or not. Whether he’ll recognize my tentative tenderness in calling him “baby” for the first time, or whether he’ll brush it off, concerned with other matters. Whether he’ll slide off the bar stool to wrap me in a bear hug or beam down at me with that quiet “she is mine” gaze.
We are about a year shy of a decade of marriage, and I still find myself wondering, wandering after him — permanently, it seems, in the posture of pursuit.
+This stunning jumpsuit, which I like with an on-trend Loeffler Randall mule like this (on super sale) or this. (Get the floral jumpsuit look for less with this.)
+Pretty cupcake liners and ribbon. I’m dying over the latter — can you imagine how adorable it would look to wrap up a little parcel of cookies with it, or tie up a gift in kraft paper?!
First, this precious mommy and me swimwear moment (seen above) from H&M: the mini me suit is $18 and the women’s style is $35. These are bound to sell out STAT since I’ve seen a number of bloggers I love mention them already. I also added this $6 sunhat to my cart in the blue and white floral print — so sweet, and the print reminds me of something Minnow Swim would carry! (And I think I need to wear this hat with my swimsuit.)
There is something particularly delicious about a freshly-bathed baby in freshly-laundered pajamas. I look forward to our post-bath routine every night, when mini begins to wind down and, after brushing teeth and lining up her Little People on my nightstand in a tidy row (she is going to excel in Montessori this upcoming year, n’est-ce pas?), we all climb into bed together — Tilly included — to read two books as a family before we head into her nursery. (Current favorites: Jesse Bear What Will You Wear? and Madeline.) Mini is so accustomed to our routine that she will indicate, loudly, if we are doing something out of order. “Mommy, sit here,” she’ll direct, if Tilly happens to be perched in my usual spot. Or “Two books!” if I’ve only brought one. Or “Daddyyyyy!” if Mr. Magpie lingers in the living room tidying up and we’re already nestled in bed.
I love the moments where she curls up next to me in her jammies, laying her head against my chest. Even now, at two, she can be wriggly and willful and silly, and so I treasure those moments of tenderness.
Today, I thought I’d share a couple of my favorite pajama brands for babies and toddlers:
+First, a new discovery: Paper Cape! I love the traditional styling and soft pima cotton of their pajamas (seen above, on mini). The founder, Alex, was generous enough to send mini a pair and we are smitten. (I love the back story, too: “After a decade working for leading retail brands, mother Alex Golden became troubled by the fast fashion disposable clothing trend and the lack of high-quality classic styles for kids that were also super comfortable. In search of inspiration, she found a 30-year-old pair of overalls that her husband wore as a child. She recognized that this type of heirloom-quality children’s clothing in classic styles are missing from today’s market. So she set out to create Paper Cape, offering the softest, highest-quality fabrics in timeless designs that meet the needs of active kids and modern parents.” Yes!!!) I will be ordering more, including this navy footie for micro. Note: size up! Mini currently wears a size 3T and they fit perfectly.
+Roller Rabbit. I love the prints. They are spend-y for children’s pajamas but they are a super soft cotton and among the cutest I’ve seen. I especially love mini’s pair of love bug print jammies — such a precious pattern! I find I often need to size up in these — mini is currently wearing a size 4, though she’s just turned 2. (Note: I love that I can also coordinate with my kids!)
+Petite Plume. Any time mini wears hers, we go crazy over them. There is something beyond adorable about a child in proper pajamas. For Easter, I gave her her very first nightgown and a matching eye mask. To die for!
+Lewis. A girlfriend of mine gifted me a pair of these and I was in love with the unusual but darling radish print! They don’t fit as snugly as Roller Rabbit’s or Beaufort Bonnet Company’s, but I found they were too short on mini pretty quickly (she is tall for her age, but just an FYI).
+Kissy Kissy. One of my favorite layette brands, but I still buy mini jammies from this label, too. In my opinion, these hold up the absolute best of all of the cotton pajamas we have — even better than Roller Rabbit. I especially love the classic and unfussy solid and striped styles, like these, for babies. But their prints are darling for older children, like these for mini. (Note: you can often find pairs from this brand for $6-$8 less than you’ll find them elsewhere on Amazon, like these.)
+Livly Baby. I love this Swedish brand and their whimsical prints — especially ones like this. I bought micro this sweet coverall and this print as his take-home outfit from the hospital!
+Gap. They often come out with cute seasonal prints and run promotions that bring a pair down to less than $15, though I will say that compared to the other brands above, the cotton is a lot coarser/scratchier. Currently loving these.
+Hanna Andersson. Love their fruit prints in particular. These are made from a slightly heavier weight cotton than a lot of the pima cottons mentioned above, but also hold up really well and have a lovely amount of stretch to them, so they grow with the child — I feel like we were able to make them last a lot longer than their size might have suggested. (Note: I appreciate that they run sizing by height, as mini is tall.) I noticed that while many of mini’s other infant pajamas looked threadbare, her Hannas and her Kissy Kissys were worth hanging onto.
+Burts Bees. I love their rugby striped pajamas — mini has owned several pairs. Classic. And you can’t beat the price!
+Bella Bliss. I especially love when they release their jammies in solid colors with white cuffs — and then you can add a monogram for a really precious look. Really soft.
A couple of other brands I’ve been eyeing but not yet tested:
+Esme. I’m not as crazy about the colors/prints, but a lot of people say these are insanely soft!
P.S. We use all Noodle & Boo products in the bath (shampoo, body wash, and bubbles), and they smell like heaven. I love the scent so much I bought this linen spray to use in the nursery — I spritz it on her upholstered crib, her armchair, her ottoman, and even her stroller cushion.
4.5 stars. This book (how gorgeous is the cover?!) reads like a lucid dream — or nightmare, to put a finer point on it. The imagery is powerful, rich, redolent and the narrative obfuscated through repetitions and recursions, overlapping and interjecting voices and perspectives, and a lack of clear grammatical distinction between quotation and observation. Strung together, these techniques impart the feeling of a dreamwalk that is at once evocative of the main character’s “madness” and at the same time implicative of the broader social problems suggested in the novel: it is as though Rhys is saying, “if you think this story is crazy, you must think the broader world has gone full-on mad — just look at the racism, dislocation, chaos, misogyny teeming in this little post-colonial world we have here.” The book is burdened with the imagery of confinement and escape, of things gone–but not. (And nowhere is this underscored better than in the fluidity of transitions between who is speaking and thinking. We are constantly having to ask: “Wait, who is saying this?” There are many instances of border and boundary-crossing, of identity loss and restoration, even in the way we encounter the text.) We have broken patrilineal (and matrilineal!) relationships, miscegenation, the emancipation of Jamaican slaves, the lush and overgrown West Indies landscape, the appearance and disappearance of Christophine and Aunt Cora (who seem present and absent in the most jarring of cadences), the “first” and “second” deaths of Antoinette’s mother, locked doors, the promise of England and “the rest of the world,” the confines of the nunnery, the isolation of the attic chamber. In the novel, women are caught, trapped, repressed, and dismissed as “mad” — though the sources of their madness are more often than not tethered to the indiscretions and cruelties of the men they love or marry (for these are not always synonymous verbs, she reminds us, and are often colored by financial incentive): their fathering of illegitimate children, their abandonment, their emotional withdrawals. Perhaps saddest of all is the redundancy of the plotlines: Antoinette, like her mother, endures a medley of traumas, is dismissed as mad, and suffers complete dissolution in a fire. And the cycle will continue, we are led to believe, even if not via Antoinette’s own offspring. There will be others who endure similar fates, we know.
On second thought, this, perhaps, is the saddest — or most difficult to process — element of all: that many women are complicit in the confinement and maltreatment of other women, too. I so wanted to trust Christophine, and yet there is a point in her negotiations with Mr. Rochester where we are led to question whether she is motivated by money. Later, Ms. Poole reveals a distinct lack of sympathy in her cruel treatment of Antoinette while attic-bound. Even Cora seems in part responsible for the handing-off and binding and silencing of her niece. Ugh. It is a cruel, male-orchestrated world Rhys paints, but men are not the only ones to blame.
One small aspect of the book I could not stop thinking about was the naming and re-naming of women: Antoinette is nicknamed Bertha by Mr. Rochester seemingly “just because”; there is some debate over whether Christophine is actually Josephine; and there is a strange relationship between Antoinette and her surname: is she Colway or Mason? Rhys seemed to be tugging at the broader conventions of men bestowing their names upon women through marriage or birth, of men “claiming” and “renaming” parts of the world as colonists, of men asserting their power in myriad ways, not the least of which is through the control of language and nomenclature more generally. There is something defiant in the way Rhys writes in the face of these observations: she often forces the reader to puzzle over the identity of the character speaking rather than using names, i.e., “said Antoinette.” In many ways, it is Rhys’ expansive, boundary-blurring writing that commands we imagine a different, less restrictive mode of living.
Book Club Questions.
+Were there any redeeming relationships in this novel?
+What do you think is the source of Antoinette’s “madness” — and that of her mother?
+What did you make of the relationships between women in this novel? What about Antoinette’s relationship between her mother? (Think, too, of the fact that she has many “surrogate” mothers in the book: Christophine, the nuns, Cora.)
+What role did the emancipation of slavery in Jamaica/the West Indies play in this novel? I focused on gender in my earlier assessment, but there is a lot to unpack with regards to race and colonialism as well. Why did she set the book in this context?
+Why does Mr. Rochester marry Antoinette? What are his motivations? Do you think he was duped into marrying her?
+What did you make of the perspective shifts in the novel? Did you find either of the principle narrators unreliable?
+What was your impression of Christophine and her motivations? What role did “obeah” play in the novel?
+Why the title?
May Book Club Pick: Normal People by Sally Rooney.
I was mesmerized earlier this month by Sally Rooney’s Conversations with Friends. (Caveat, especially to my mother: there are many explicit scenes in the novel.) I was mainly impressed by its freshness in tone and its deep and abiding honesty about dynamics between friends. She spotlighted just how observant and sensitive we are when it comes to the slightest of tonal shifts, omissions of information, patterns of conversation and reaction. Her take on romance in the modern (technology-fueled!) age was novel, too. The book left me in a fog of self-reflection. All in, a remarkably original and non-derivative work. I’m eager to pick up her just-released second book and discuss with you all. I think Rooney’s is a powerful new voice to whom we need to attend.
Reading next: Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon after a trusted Magpie book club member urged its reading. I’m curious, too, about Verity, which has caused a legitimate internet sensation (but what is the FUSS?!), but have been discouraged from reading it while pregnant but many people who have already read the book. Hmmm…
+I told myself I wouldn’t buy any more maternity clothes (about a month out from due date now!), but my mom generously sent me a fresh pair of maternity pajamas and I have to say — they’ve absolutely made my month. I know I’ve written extensively on the topic of these jammies but, seriously, they are the only time of day I feel fully comfortable. They are so soft, so forgiving. I love the robe that ties under the bust. Just the best. Thank you, mom.
+Rebecca Taylor’s sale section always slays me. Currently lusting after this, this, and this. (Though I am determined to get out of my jeans-only rut, an easy formula for a spring outfit: a white pair of skinnies and a range of chic blouses.)
+Moms: what is your favorite straw cup for your little one? This Thinkbaby and this Camelbak are in heaviest rotation in our house.
+How sweet is this little dish for decorative purposes in a nursery?
By: Jen Shoop
A few weeks ago, just after I’d written my post on not getting into my first-choice school, a girlfriend called to share an interesting and completely contradictory experience to the one I’d described.
She’d gotten into her first-choice, Ivy League school, but had gone against the grain and her family’s wishes (she was a legacy!) and opted for a state school instead. The decision caused friction within her family, to the point that it remains a sore issue to this day. She went on to say that she still finds herself wondering what if…?
“In some ways, I envy that you didn’t get into your first choice school and that the decision was made for you. I feel like I was messing with fate. At least you can look back and say: I made lemonade out of lemons. Meanwhile, I don’t know what I was doing. Did I do the right thing?”
As she agonized, I could see that she was still wrestling with a very real and very pressing measure of regret — even now, over ten years after graduating. She went on to explain two or three other serious life situations where she’s been put in a position to decide between multiple options, noting that she’s felt something close to paralysis each time, likely owing to the uneasy experience of her college matriculation.
As we chatted, I realized that I’ve never experienced the decision paralysis she was describing. I can’t tell whether this is because I have — as she suggested — been fortunate enough to have many major life decisions made for me in a certain sense (I actually can’t remember a time where I’ve had to jockey between multiple possible and convincing options where a big life decision is concerned, with the exception of deciding not to pursue a cephalic version when I discovered that mini was breech — more on that below) or because I tend to develop really strong perspectives fairly quickly. For example, I knew Mr. Magpie was The One from nearly the dawn of our relationship — while I know many friends have had to struggle with deciding whether or not a relationship is worth pursuing (“is he the one?!” and “are we in this for the long haul?”). And I knewmini’s name was right for her and never thought twice about it, whereas many other friends have expressed ambivalence and even regret (I actually know a few women who have changed their babies’ names well after birth). Come to think of it, I rarely find myself doubting my own decision-making or regretting a choice I’ve made, with the exception of when I opted to schedule a c-section instead of attempting a cephalic version with mini to see whether we could get her into a head-down position for a vaginal birth. But even in that case, I spent so much time weighing the pros and cons and seeking the counsel of my doctor and trusted love ones, that in my moments of dubiousness, I would run back through my rationale and calm myself: “Yes, I made the best decision I possibly could have at that point.” And I’d relax into my decision. Or maybe I have cultivated sufficient confidence in the notion of “trusting my gut,” as things have always worked out one way or another, and with major faculties intact — so I’ve never given myself room to question the decisions I’ve made. I tend to hunt for “clues” and “signs” and “foreshadowings” in thinking about the path that has led me somewhere, and maybe this find-and-seek activity helps me better explain why I’ve done what I’ve done and why it makes sense within the context of “my story.”
What do you think? Have you experienced decision paralysis? If not, do you think it’s because you’ve never had occasion to weigh multiple possible options or because decision-making is easier for you for one reason or another?
Post-Script: An Elegant Bathroom.
Apropos of nothing at all: I am swooning over the elegant bathroom remodel by the husband and wife team behind The Happy Tudor.
I initially recoiled from the mawkishness of this poem, but its sentiments lingered, and I have found myself returning to them when feeling, as I have on occasion over the past few weeks, as though I will never make it to the finish line with this pregnancy. I have had this exact conversation play out in my head countless times over the past few days in particular, especially when I am shuffling down the street trying to make it from point A to point B and the pressure pushing downward on my bladder, uterus, etc is about as uncomfortable as I can tolerate:
Me: “I just don’t know how I’ll make it to 40 weeks.”
Also me: “What do you mean, ‘how I’ll make it?’ You’ll make it the same way every other woman makesit: by putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in and out, and taking it one minute at a time.”
Contractions woke me up last Friday morning (you may have seen my post on this front on Instagram) and were coming so regularly — under five minutes apart for two hours straight — that my doctor told me to head to the hospital. I was monitored for several hours and, at last, about six or seven hours after they’d started, the contractions died down and the doctors discharged me. They told me to drink a lot of water, as dehydration can bring on contractions, and also said — both unhelpfully and reassuringly — “This just happens sometimes.” It was a bizarre blur of a day that catapulted me through every emotion you can imagine: excitement, anxiety, concern, panic, resignation, determination, hope, exasperation. I was both relieved and frustrated to return home without baby in arms. Of course I want him to stay put and continue to develop until his appointed due date to avoid complications, and of course I was partly relieved to still have time to get the remaining minutaie in order for his homecoming (Mr. Magpie promptly brought the infant carseat and bassinet up from storage — “It’s time,” he said). But of course I also did not particularly cherish the experience of enduring contractions and running through a fire drill that yielded no result. What surprised me most, though, was how dialed in I was to the smallest of happinesses in the days that followed: the fluffiness of my comfortable, spacious bed in comparison to the hospital cots; the quiet and not-so-quiet familiarity of mornings in our apartment (especially after the frenzy of the previous day), its routines so deeply engrained in me that I occasionally find myself looking up at the clock at 8:33 or 8:39 a.m. and realizing I’ve successfully fed my family, had my morning cup of coffee, made the beds, washed my face and applied my daily makeup routine, dressed mini and brushed her hair, packed mini’s lunch, cleaned the kitchen, tidied the toys, and dressed myself — without really thinking about it; the stretch of TV watching and idle chit-chat with Mr. Magpie before bed; the indulgence of a last-minute decision to order dinner in when we were too tired to cook; the sound of Tilly’s happy panting as we pet her on the couch between us; the reassurances from my mother over the phone. (En route to the hospital on Friday, I called my mother in tears. Mr. Magpie had hung back at the apartment to wait for my sister and brother-in-law to arrive and look after mini, and so I was alone and feeling very anxious. Was this it? Wasn’t it way too early? As the taxi whizzed down the 65th Street Transverse through Central Park, my mother and I said a Hail Mary together, and then she said: “I’m right there with you today, and so is Mary. We’re right behind you.” All of these little comforts gleamed small and bright against the chaos of the day: little rainbows amidst — or after — a storm.
Hoping that you’ll find yourself basking in similar moments of reprieve this weekend.
On D.C. and the Parochial Wild: “…D.C. has always seemed, to me, small and slack — like a mildly overgrown thicket or a tumbler of water that’s been sitting, sweating, in the heat, a ring of water pooled around its basin. There is a languor to it — especially in the summer — underscored by the heavy shade of trees you’ll find most anywhere in Northwest D.C. in particular, and the torpid buzz of cicadas, and the canopy of humidity. The lush green spaces are unmanicured; street signs are often partially obscured by vines or branches; medians will occasionally boast knee-high grass. There is a thickness, a drawl to things, that has always made me think of the city as part wild — but not wild in the awe-inspiring sense of the Rocky Mountains; wild in the sense of the wood playhouse my father built with birch planks from Hechingers and installed at the top of a small hill in our backyard, beneath a shady pine tree…”
Fellow Washingtonians: does this reverberate?
Others: how do you feel about your hometown?
Post-Scripts.
+On the heels of my post about preppy/classic fashion: these simple slides with the seersucker fabric! Adorable!
+I love these milkglass candlesticks. I’ve usually opted for white or metallic taper candles, but for our Easter table, I bought a set of pale blue ones to put into my mercury glass candlestick holders and I have to say — it opened my eyes to the possibilities of color via candles/candlestick holders and now I want lots of different colors.
